Teenlock
by DannyPhantomOfTheAvatar
Summary: Sherlock arrives at college, he is younger than everyone, and he thinks he is smarter. Johnlock. Teenlock (of course). Language.
1. Meeting Camn

Dyed red wood lined the path to the dorm. The building is thirteen stories high, very posh, very expenside to get into, but it doesn't stop the interior from carrying flickering lights and cracked paint. It was the boys side of the University, the side that held more trophy cases, more memorabilia, that had more history since it started out as an all-gentlemen club. It was also the side that most professors, hall guards, and janitors have vanished from.

In reality, it is a haunted house. Full of wealthy items of high price, but let down to the age and dust it's gathered.

Sherlock knew this about the campus itself before his hand touched the golden door handle. The sixteen year old, so said genius, was doing an immediate transfer from his private school life to his slightly less private but truly high end college life. Inside the door held a large and intimidatingly dark hallway. Lining it were dark offices, an open nurses room, benches with quiet people (some of them reading), and a way for an elevator and stairs. Something about this screamed uncertainty.

"Young man." A sizable, light, very old English accent coming from a tall, clean shaved man sounded tiredly behind him. Sherlock turned slowly, sighing loudly until he was face to face with the obvious head of staff. "Sir." He replied back, shifting his sachel on his shoulder. The man straightened up, his eyes looking down more than his head. He let out a replicated sigh, "We've recieved a call from your brother, and a profile announcing your information and arrival." A large hand stuck out, holding a file stashed full of papers.

Sherlock took the questionable stack from his hands, looking at it briefly before understanding it was his school schedule and a printed handbook. "Yes, thanks." He looked up waiting for the man to gesture some sort of welcome or conclusion. He does not. Yet he does mumble a, "Good day, Holmes." And turns robotically, dissapearing fast in his office.

"Oh, help me." _Holmes _says blank faced, looking through the stack for a sense of direction. Not that it would be hard to do alone, but considering he is younger here, it'd be safer in doing this by literal handbook.

A few page flips, avoidances of people, and a stair climb later Sherlock was knocking on his new dorm door. It looked painted fresh, kept up from the rest that have crude drawings and key scrapes north to south. He panned back to his door, reading 221B, double checking he hasn't mind palaced himself somewhere else. He heard a noise at the other side, then a, "One moment!" And finally the sweet sound of a quiet door opening squeak free.

In seconds, Sherlock observed all directions of this lad. Things like his suggestive and light drug use, equally suggestive friends, large family, and average life. But there were also the physical things, the things Sherlock looked for. His skin was dry, overly dry. He's had one too many sunburns, which could be the sum of multiple long summers and springbreaks or from his time working his way to college. Being outside, on a farm maybe. Then, there is his black hair. It's naturally black, but the sun has streaked it blonde. It was cut shaggily and short. He ruled out the burned skin on summer vacation and sprinkbreak. This was a working man.

"Hey, I'm Camn." He had a boyish smile, but his eyes read dangerous. Maybe he did do his time making his own money, but perhapse it was deserved of him to work his own. Sherlock smiled, fakely, readying himself, "Sherlock. I believe we are rooming." Camn, who was the same height or possibly shorter than Sherlock, yet buffer and meatier, smacked him hard on the shoulder, bolting him forward. Camn laughed, "We are! Your stuff was sent to my room yesterday. I took liberty to unload everything on your bed. And I hope you don't mind I gave you the window view."

He was pointing to his bed. Apparently unloading meant going through every zipper and pocket of Sherlock's luggage and leaving it nastily on the unkept bed. Then, Camn was on his own bed, reaching over for a smoke. "The guards roam the campus at night and their flashlights shine directly in your eyes." His hands tried a few times before successfully lighting it.

Sherlock frowned, but not at his inconvenience. It was Camn's stupidity. Curtains could easily fix the problem. But his frown was turned into a quick throw of hands, "Um, Camn. I'm not sure smoking is the best thing!" He watched as the blonding man let rings of grey smoke leave his lips, "You won't tell, will you? I do hate tattlers."

Sherlock groaned again, his mind trying to find something to focus on besides the sweet smell of ash. Possibly he could find anger in his tossed bags on his bed again, but no. Not even that. "No, Camn. I've been clean since I found out I was coming to college. It's dangerous." Camn bit his lip in thought a seconds, letting another breath of smoke expell his mouth. "Then you better inhale a good breath before you lose it!" He cracked a smile, leaning forward with his hand extended, waiting for his roommate to take the cig.

The pale genius did love the idea. He shrugged, taking it in hand. "Cheers." He said quietly, holding the thing up slightly as if to 'cheers' away his days of being ash-free. Camn nodded, lighting another of his own. It was funny how smoking brought people together. In high school, Sherlock ducked his way out of being beaten up by offering such an offer. The minute he was able to get some of his own, he did, and he became hooked to yet another substance.

But now, regracing his lungs with a forgotten friend, it was scary. Then it was over. That first inhale was mind boggling, painful, and stung so beautifully. He knew the moment he exhaled that he'd have to have his stache Camn wouldn't be able to find. He could smoke a quick pack before his roomie came back from doing god knows what or god knows who, then air out the place through his window. Everything was playing out in his mind. That is, until Camn starting talking again.

"My last mate hated me smoking." His eyes were reading something else when he said that. Sherlock looked at him, confused. Then he saw Camn was smoking pot and not a cigarette like he was. "Let me guess..." Sherlock began, smiling inside widely because he knew nobody else has been this straightforward with him. "...After your hard days of working your ass off on your mother's farm, you turned eighteen. Your father decidedly brought you into his life again, offered you money, offered you a spot in college, offered a life. You took it. You changed. You found drugs, smoking, and alcohol, and women, and men and-"

In moments when Sherlock was brawling in sore spots in a persons life, he rarely thought to pay attention to their own reaction. Camn's was in the least bit subtle. One moment he was smirking on his bed, the next his hand was wound in his roomie's collar, pushing him against the wall. Holmes wasn't scared, he was a Holmes, he's taken beatings and neglect before. So he just stared uncaringly at him. "Okay, faggot." His hand pressed harder, pain settling in. "You're new here, so I will take this easy." His nose was side by side with Sherlock's bruisingly close. "You can piss off, stop prying into my life or whatever it is you call that. We can start over. Just don't mess with me."

His hand chucked off his collar, and a breeze from his departing left a chill in the air. Sherlock suppressed a laugh, something he always did after someone's attempt at scaring him. "I don't mean to be a bother but..." He stopped a moment, judging Camn's reaction to his continued talking. When he didn't seem too angered, he pressed. "We've known each other for... What? ...five minutes tops? And I just read your life's story. What do you see in me?" It was a question he sometimes asked the people he deduced.

Sherlock looked down, quickly taking his cig that had fallen into his mouth again.

Camn twisted his drag in his mouth, locking the door and falling to his bed. "I see a smart arse. And I'm sure one of my pals got to you before I did. Telling you all you needed to know about my dad." He seemed too sure of himself. Sherlock felt undermined, he needed to fix that. "Well, do your friends know about your rendevouz with guys?" It was all too obvious. Sherlock's read and looked up far too many physycological readings to not see the attraction to the same sex. And Camn, yeah, sure was riding the line of straight and gay.

Expecting another outburst, Sherlock braced himself, but nothing came. Instead, his roomie was plopping himself down on the bed and puffing another breath of his smoke. "No, they don't." He spoke slowly the second time, "And neither did my last dorm buddie." His teeth shone with vigor.

Sherlock's smile fell once more, and he glanced a look around the room. Something to change the subject? Why would it matter what a former roommate knew? Unless it was tied to Sherlock. "Your door. It's in better shape than the rest." He finally acknowledged. Camn shot a look to it then stared back, "It's new. Me and the other guy knocked it down. It was his last day here." It was as if it was a good memory, something he was remembering fondly.

"Right." Suddenly, something in Sherlock wanted to know what happened. And suddenly, that cigarrette wasn't as enticing as before. But if he did ask? Camn surely wouldn't speak truth.

Look at him.

Eyes scanning frantic, breath happily lost, mouth holding back a grin, he was keeping a terrible secret. It was just like one of those cop shows Sherlock found one day. Except this was real, and nobody was horribly acting and there wasn't a fan to blow back their hair. Real.

"Something wrong princess?" His deceptive voice was deep and strangely calming. "Yes. I need to walk the campus, get a feel for everything so I'll be ready for class tomorrow." He was getting up, burning his cig into a perfectly placed ash tray by his bedside (Provided by Camn's truly). The mix of the two lights were fogging the room already, and Sherlock felt the secondary high seeping through his head already.

In actuality, fresh air would do him good.

Camn picked his phone up and began texting, "Well go then. Nobody's going to hold your hand and baby talk you." Sherlock nodded again, picking up the key hanging beside the door just incase Camn was gone. And he left, heaving somewhat a relieved sigh and inhaling clean-ish oxygen as well.

"Damn these halls are dingy." He noted.

Hours passed. Before he knew it, it was five in the afternoon and young adults started packing the sidewalks and street. The campus was large, but the classes were close enough together not everyone needed a car to get around. Sherlock took note of the cars that did, though. Some teachers, the rest the richer bunch of the school.

Then he stopped at a very random cafe, just beside a mathematics building and a clearance of trees, possibly the school park. It was quaint, student run, and moderately busy. He thought maybe, just maybe, if he talked to a good number of these people, they'd know about Camn and his place here.

He walked in. And walked out, ever so quickly, overrun with his senses.

There was hormones in the air, loud laughter/crying/cheering/yelling, girls (never been there never done that), guys flirting with the girls (not so shocking), beverages spilling, food dropping. Sherlock went to a quiet school, went to quiet pubs and cafe's. He was considered posh for awhile now. But this? Too much. Too much to defer and infer. He was stuck looking just outside the door into the decieving window. It all looked so normal from outside.

Then a weight thrust Sherlock into the doors, making him fall face first into the thing he was avoiding. People.

"Agh!" He was going for something along the lines of 'Why did you just do that?!' but 'Agh' works too. Sherlock felt the room quiet down a bit, noticing his fall, then quickly start mumbling again. He threw himself to his back and looked up, facing the person who hurt him so.

"Gods, forgive me. I wasn't looking." A friendly hand came down, waiting for him to take it. "Apparently." Sherlock responded winded, and he took the hand generously. The least they could do was help him to his feet.

Sherlock finally got a look of him. "Figures. An army man like yourself would be quite strong." It was his hair, the clean cut, very short. The man double took, then glanced down at his tan hoodie then back up. "How did you know I was in the army?" His face was almost concerned about this.

Sherlock looked around the cafe, then the door that was open and sported the army man's couple friends. He was distracted from everyone, good. "Oh, were you not? I thought the military hair cut and broad shoulders spoke everything of it."

"Brilliant. I mean, I'm even wearing my old shirt under this." His eyes were astonished and filled with amazement, maybe wonder. "Good, then. I, um, am fine and everyone seems to have forgotten about it so... Nice to meet you." The other man held out his hand for a handshake, but Sherlock refused kindly and turned to go ahead and walk into the cafe. "I'm John! What's your name?" He was running up beside Sherlock.

"Holmes. I'm Sherlock Holmes." He said proudly. Then he remembered by fate that he wanted to go in here to ask about Camn. And so he shall. "Wait, John. Do you know a Camn? Around campus?"

John's friends made a reaction before John did, and he better be glad he wasn't drinking anything when he did. "Camn? Your roommate is Camn Renould?" It was a fear that settled into their eyes. And Sherlock became unsettled himself.


	2. An Incident

"Renould? What's wrong with him? John. Really, all I know is he had this one roommate..." Sherlock tripped over his words. John caught him. "You. Mha, You really don't know?"

A friend behind John stepped closer, pushing up his glasses. "Camn was suspended for it! Banned from the school but his father paid his way back in. I'm surprised Head Master Morlo didn't mention!" Sherlock gave the slightly overweight man a look of confusion, "If anyone would just clarify what he did that was so bad, that would be more than helpful."

John stuck his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sorry. This is Stamford by the way." He looked around cautiously, as if to verify none of Camn's friends were near, then he got close to the younger man's ear, "Camn Renoulds forced himself on his roommate." And John leaned back as if the world was safe again. Sherlock nearly laughed, "He's a rapist? Of course he is! His worry line is beyond worrysome and his hands are far too jittery." Again, he nearly laughed and he's glad he didn't. John became a little pissed.

"No, Sherlock. He FORCED himself onto the lad. He not only raped him, but nearly killed him as well. You NEED to get a different room. Move in with us if you have to, just don't play with Renoulds." His seriousness finally transferred to Sherlock and his belly turned and flopped. "I've dealt with worse i'm sure." Eyes followed his. "If you can't notice, I wasn't the most favored crayon in the box. Being bullied is something I can handle. Besides, you wouldn't take me in."

John made a look of, 'oh you're sure about this', and dropped his hand to his side. "We will, every roommate is a stranger at first. I've only known Stamford since this year." Sherlock felt like they knew him, and is disgusted him. "You won't. Want to know why? Watch." He turned to Stamford and eyeballed him, as if to gesture a warning. "You. Stamford. Grew up in a home of abusive parents, moved into your grandparents home when you were seven, they fattened you up, something you are working on still today. You blew your last frustrations at school and studied harder than you've ever before. You were head in English and offered a spot here in no time. You were bullied as well, but danced around it." John gave a look of anger and tried to comfort Stam when Sherlock brushed his left shoulder lightly, he winced and a muffled groan let out. "You. Name John Watson, obvious. Your sister was gay since she became aware of sexuality. You pushed yourself straight in fear of going through what she did, the name calling and loss of friends. You were always good in health class so when you went into the army, a long time dream of yours, they drug you to the infirmary." The ex-armyman's jaw was on the floor.

"You left the army and went to college as soon as you got shot. Which was quite soon. You are still healing your wound, left shoulder, today. It was bad. You wear hoodies so you can hang your left arm in the pouch. And you are looking at me right now in disbelief. And to answer you next question, no. I have never seen you before and I am not with any secret service. I am sixteen, and I deduce facts." He was done, his statement closed.

Sherlock said all of that being his true self so they could properly judge his moving in. It was something he always did and it always proved to push everyone he could care about, away. Including his brother and father. But John? He wasn't leaving, not yet. Why? "My sister. How did you know I had a sibling, but less a sister?" Stamford was backing up from the conversation, still nearby but a good few feet away. Sherlock smiled to himself, "John, your phone is sticking out of your pocket, you got a message and the home screen popped up. It is of you and your sister." His hand was pointing clearly to the phone.

John transferred it to his rear pocket and let out a ticked breath. "Just forget I offered you anything. You are well on your own, obviously." He was mad but there still was a hint of worry for Sherlock in the way he double took while walking off. Sherlock's heart thumped twice. The last time he's seen a face of sincerity was from a teacher when he was six and lost in the kindergarden building. (Lost going as far as leaving class to explore the premises). But still, it was a farely new feeling. "Bye, John." He said over the loudening crowd. But he didn't turn around.

So, now he knew. He knew Camn was risky and dangerous. But when could be done? Signing for another room in this hell hole would most likely throw him with someone even more annoying. No, Camn was easier to manipulate. Give him what he wants and he'll back off. And that's what Sherlock did. For the next few months he lived with Camn with no serious injury. They didn't talk much, they exchanged a friendly smoke every now and then. And most nights Sherlock wouldn't need sleep, so there was no reason he would have his back turned to him.

But this day, avoiding Camn was proven almost impossible. Sherlock had just gotten out of his last class, physics, and was bored beyond belief. Besides the little affair between a student and teacher he broke up, school was dull. He needed something to fire up his mind again. After a shower however.

The black door to the dorm was slammed and Sherlock pulled out the necessary items for a shower. Shampoo, body wash... Hell, forget it, grab everything and run for it. It was one of those days one too many people tried to make contact with him. One girl slipped a number in his hand, a nerd bumped into him going down the stairs, a jock slapped the side of his head. Human contact was a clear 'No' for Sherlock. He needed it off.

It was a small bathroom, but had an invitingly large shower and tub, something that reminded him of his own tub back at home. Only minutes later and the shower head was spilling hot water and steam. As Sherlock stepped inside the tub slowly, he got a feeling of being watched. He was alone, Camn was in the lounge as always this time of day, but he felt eyes. That strange feeling made him feel, somewhat, self conscious. Would the person watching him hurt him? Laugh at him? What would they do?

Then Sherlock began thinking. That's what showers are for, right? Thinking. And showering.

_I didn't see Camn leave myself, so he could very well be lurking in here. He's notorious for his sneaky ways. He loves downing me, putting me on the wrong end of a situation. Would he really be watching? No, the curtains are closed. But, what about his past? He had his way with the last person who lived with him, who's to say I'm not next? It's clearly possible. It could happen. _"It could happen." He said aloud.

As soon as he spoke a sound of breaking glass sounded just outside the bathing room. Sherlock peered out the curtain, the door was open. Did he not close it? Was he in such a rush earlier? He returned to cautiously and quickly clean himself. A minute passes. Another shuffle just outside the door and Sherlock rinses the soap from his eyes and turns off the water. Silence.

Usually, he would find the closest weapon, arm himself, and be ready to defend himself. But with Camn, there were variables. If he were home and just making noise, how silly would it be to see a fairly nude male holding a shower rod? No, Sherlock needed to get out of the shower and slip his robe on, stake out the place with an optimistic view. If that were possible.

He blindly reaches for a towel on the rack, but he doesn't feel it. He leans more, nearly slipping but grabs the just large enough black towel. His curls are heavy, falling into his eyes. And there is a small spark of fear in the air. He opens the curtains quick, letting the cold air contrast against his hot skin. Nobody is there, not in here. Sherlock skims his long, thin leg over the tubside. He recalls this happening one other time, during the first week he found out about Camn, Sherlock getting dressed and feeling uneasy eyes over his scrawny body. It isn't fun the second time around. Definitely not fun.

His foot pads the cool tile and something hard and square hits his cheekbone, he falls fast to his side, and he can't see. Something about your body and shock, temporary blindness is the last thing Sherlock wished for. He tries to get to his feet nonetheless, but that same square, hard object pushes him back down, it's a fist. Then as a prayer answered too late, Camn's voice comes out rough and used, "This is sad, really, Sherly. I liked you. Why did you have to do it?"

Sherlock tries to open his eyes, failed attempts. "I trusted you. I use to tell my friends what a good boy you've been, minding your own buisness... Putting your hands on your own stuff. Keeping off of my property." He feels a breath against the skin of his ear, it's surprisingly cold. Sherlock shivers, and tries to focus his hazed eyesight, he needs to get out of this. Usually, he just took a beating, but this was something far from that. Camn was a rapist, drug addict, violent person from what he's heard. He can't just take this.

Sherlock throws himself to his back, for a fighting chance. Camn immediately pins him down, arms over head, hips straddled, chest to fucking chest. "How about I put your hands where they're supposed to be? Hmm? And if you keep your mouth shut, I'll let you redeem yourself." He forces Sherlock's right hand down, everythings cold. The tile on his boney back, the air coming from the other room, Camn's breath, everything but Camn himself, Camn is hot as hell. Sherlock struggles, and his eyes find the time to focus on Camn's face. He's been shooting himself up, looks like the effects of a mixture of drugs. Sick.

"You-" Sherlock finds his voice is rasped from the slam to the ground. Camn leans in, lips brushing his cheek as he speaks, "Me, what?" His hand now shoving Sherlock's hand to his groin. Sherlock disreguards it, "You are not well, you need to rethink this." Maybe talking his way out will help?

Camn throws his head back in a laugh, sitting up and pushing all weight on him. It hurts, but he's grateful for the little black towel still showing modesty. "I do? I need to rethink this?" His own hands fumble his trousers open and he stands, eyes glaring down the pale, skinny man's body. Sherlock hesitates. Should he? It's risky, but he does. He holds the towel to his hips and bolts off the ground in a crawl, running straight to the door. He's close! He pulls the handle, but it's locked.

And it's all the time Camn needs before he bangs his hand above Holmes, gripping his arm and throwing him to the unmade bed that Sherlock wished he'd never be on. "I'm not sure you remember your sin, Mister. You stole my drugs, took my coke." And he was right. No matter how bad this looked with Camn straddling the smaller, now naked, face down male, Sherlock knew he deserved this to a degree. He stole a small amount of coke, but he thought Camn would understand, he needed it then.

Camn grinds his teeth to the skin and muscle just under Sherlock's hairline.

He knew he'd either be raped tonight, or killed. Both seemed do-able, something he could handle. So he should go down with a fighting chance. "Your father would be disappointed. Knowing his son was gay. That his only son wouldn't be able to give him a grandchild, that he'd most likely die in an alley way due to drugs." Camn dug his knee into Sherlock's thigh, scooting his whole body flush with his, grinding his freed erection into the cleft of his ass. "Who's to say your any different? From what I see your a loner, who steals his drugs. Can't even buy them himself!" That wasn't true. Many times Sherlock would go use his brother's money in a cheap pub, but Camn didn't know that. Nor did Mycroft.

Sherlock whimpered, losing his cool when a strong hand came to the back of his neck. "I told you to be quiet. Remember?" Not being able to see the damage coming was something he'd thank for later. He only felt. The weight of Camn, the bruising hand clamped down on his neck, the engorged cock searching its way for an opening. His opening. He got scared then, feeling what he didn't want to. His lungs cried out in agony, this was too much, not something a teen should go through.

"Be over. Please, be over." He mumbled quietly into the sheets beneath him, praying, arms pinned, legs still with shock.

It hasn't even began yet. ...Yet, it was over. Another voice was further behind him, and the pain of Renould on top of him was gone. "Are you alright? I heard shouting!"

* * *

**AN: A teenlock in which Sherlock feels because he is learning how to become who he will be as an adult. And sorry if this is rubbish, but I had to. I need feedback, please, it'd help!**


	3. Cleaning up

Sherlock twisted himself to his back once more, shocked in the least to see Lestrade, an outgoing individual from his fine arts class. By the looks of his processing face, Sherlock deduces this isn't the first time he's been involved with such a situation.

"He ran away?" Camn was nowhere in immediate sight. Lestrade grinned kind of proudly, shucking a comforter Sherlock's way before shaking his head. "Ran straight into my fist! He went fast to sleep, didn't even have a chance to fight back."

He took the covers graciously, wrapping them around his waist, he leaned a look over the edge of the bed. "Got him in the frontal lobe, he could possibly have brain damage. Not that I care any." He said it under his breath, but Lestrade heard it nonetheless, agreeing with an also quiet, "Yup." He was out, Camn wasn't hurting anyone else for at least another hour.

As he tried to step from the cursed bed, Sherlock riveted in pain. "My foot!" He said through clenched teeth. Lestrade took a step closer, a crunching sound under his shoes. Glass. "Fuck, man. Are you okay?" During the mad dash to the door, Sherlock must have forgotten the sound of something breaking just outside. He stepped in it, shards and shattered remains of the glass splintering the whole underneath side of his foot. Just one though.

"I'm fine. Better than I would be if you showed up any later." Yes, best keep formality during a time like this. Don't remind him you would have been a rape victim. Calm, void of all emotion. Lestrade dug out his caseless phone, dialing a number, "I'm getting help." His seriousness shone.

Sherlock threw himself up to his good foot, a hand not holding the blanket going into the air. "No! Really. Not the police. Call the nurse, Camn will be needing one." And for one, having the police in a room full of shared drugs and alcohol wouldn't be fun. Once they find it, all sympathy for the victim will be put aside.

Lestrade put the phone down, questioning the man with a look. "I'm calling my buddy, Anderson. He's good at cleaning up a scene and making the bad guy learn a lesson. Just hang tight, go wash off the blood." The phone was back to his ear before he finished, and he began directing orders to the other line.

A sense of relief filled the air, and Sherlock did as he was told. But going back into the bath room only showed the story that played out seconds ago.

Nail marks on the tub, the scuffed tile flooring, the steam disapating from the shower, tennis shoe skids where Camn began running. It was a true story if you read it right.

Sherlock lifted his foot into the tub and filled the tub slowly with warm water, watching how his foot turned it from clear to pink, to red. The loose pieces of glass fell to the bottom, but there was just too much for rinsing it off to do any good. He lifted his foot back out, letting it drip a creamy pink. He looked around, he put a robe inside with him before showering, and decided to drop the comforter and go for it.

Lestrade hung up his phone and waltzed in, stepping over Camn's body along the way. "Renould was always a troublemaker. Especially after his mother abandoned him." And boom. BOOM! There you go. Camn's story now makes sense. Because his father never came back. Camn was the one to find him. And to find a way to get rid of him, his father sent him loads of money and shipped him to college. That was the truth.

Sherlock let his smile grow. Only because he knew now, the puzzle was done. Lestrade smiled too, out of confusion. "Aaannnddd now you're happy. Makes sense." He said in a sarcastic laugh. Sherlock nodded to him, nobody would understand him but he was fine with it. "You said Anderson earlier. If this is the same person, I'm not sure he's going to be so thrilled to see me. I sort of called out his cheating with Ms. Donovan in front of his girlfriend."

A series of three dots (. . .) displayed above Lestrades head then before he let out a hearty chuckle, "That is probably the best thing I've heard. He kind of deserved it." His eyes shot to Sherlock, saying a 'you're all right'. Sherlock leaned against the tub, smiling still, because yet another person actually cared. Usually, this wouldn't phase him, but right now it's exactly what he needed.

Minutes passed. Anderson came, Camn was escorted off the premises, the dorm was made new again. Then minutes became hours, and the sun outside turned to the moon. The broom in Lestrade's hand became a beer, and the boys were sat down chatting.

"So, Gavin. You like doing this kind of stuff?" Sherlock was by his window, puffing his cigarette through the crack. Lestrade furrowed his brow and sloshed the beer in his hand as he hit it against his forehead. "Greg." He moaned out.

Sherlock popped his head up, "Excuse me?"

Lestrade pointed to himself, "My name is Greg Lestrade. And sure, I like doing this kind of stuff. Not that I go looking for it, it kind of finds me." Sherlock thought to himself a moment, eyes flickering to the corner of the room.

"Um, Greggory. If you ever have a code you guys can't crack, I'm always here." The idea of getting involved in the school's drama was enticing. Just for the sole reason of knowing the unknown, cracking on.

Greg stood, "It's Greg. And sure, although you'll have to prove yourself to Anderson sometime. As you know he's not too kind to newcomers." He smiled once more before heading to the door, "I'll mention your name tomorrow morning." His hand turned the handle sharp and tugged it open, but a person was on the other end.

The first thing Sherlock thought was, 'It's late, they're probably looking for a party or booze', the second was, 'if it's Anderson I'll scream', and the third and final thing was, 'Oh! John, haven't seen you in awhile'.

It was John Watson, out of everyone in the University. And he was sopping wet, head to toe, and-and his face looked to both men as if they were crazy.

Greg opened the door wider, just looking at John. Sherlock supressed what he thought was laughter. "One of those days where the lone storm cloud follows your head?" It was a good one, even Greg laughed. Yet John's face was nothing too happy, "Some idiots hazed me on my way to the store. They took my keys, wallet, and dumped some astonishingly clean water on my head. I saw Anderson downstairs, Greg. He said I'd find you here."

There was a nod of the head John did to Sherlock after. It was subtle but understood, saying he remembers him but still isn't too thrilled about what happened before. And Greg hesitated a look before answering, seeing the obvious nod, "Yeah, my dorm is actually next door if you want to wait in there. Or you can stay, considering it seems you've already met Holmes here." It was a secret question, like he was making sure he actually saw them exchange a look.

John made a classic face, "Met? No, I'm sure you don't meet Sherlock Holmes. You offer him something and let him refuse and insult you." Okay, even he admitted he didn't mean it. You can't just judge a person like Sherlock that easily. "Insult." Sherlock repeated, confused. And John sighed, giving up with his anger toward the man, "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't want for it to come out like that but you did bring out sore spots in Stamford and I's lives." He remembers that day in the cafe, he hasn't slept right since meeting Sherlock really.

Greg licked his lower lip, still holding the door open. "Sore spots? I don't mean to bother, but what do you mean." John chucked off his jacket slowly, revealing his still soaking and now slightly see-through jumper. "Go ahead, Sherlock. Show him what I mean." You could tell the way he threw the item to the ground his shoulder was still badly wounded.

A furrow of the brow, Sherlock questioned him, "No clue what you mean for me to do." Either sarcastic or legitimately clueless.

Greg was still quietly waiting. John smiled, "Yes, you do. Take a quick look at Greg here and tell him how many days he has left to live." And, oh, Sherlock gets it now. John wants him to provide a perfectly reasonable deduction from Lestrade like he had to John himself a few months ago. "It's not like tha- Fine." He blinked frustratedly, "Greg. You associate yourself with crimatic manners because of you unfulfilled need to save someone. That someone being a possible family member, friend." Just this once was he going to be ordered around.

Greg nearly dropped his can of beer, catching it mid fall. "You do not know that." John shrugged, feeling like he's said enough, but Sherlock wasn't done. "And John. You were not hazed, you were robbed. All because you were an easy target all alone, looking pathetic." Was he wrong? No. Was he wrong to say that? Some what.

"You just have to turn things around, don't you? Why are you even here, Greg?" John wasn't too happy about Sherlock's fast wit. Lestrade was still counting in his head, "I guess saving people is what I like to do, but do I really have a deep need to save her?" He was thinking aloud. John grunted, annoyed, then his eyes turned to the rest of the dorm. Because, didn't Sherlock say his roommate was Camn Renould? "Hey, Sherlock? What time does your dorm buddy usually come back at night?"

If a harp was being played, it wasn't anymore. The strings were cut from the harmony. Sherlock looked to Greg who had temporarily forgotten his own problems. "He's not coming back. I actually live alone as of now." He quickly shoved away the metaphorical crime tape. Greg nodded, so this was going to be a secret, sort of thing.

"And I am done here, if that's all right. Thanks for the, ehm, beer." He held his hand over his head, waving a goodbye quickly and shimmied past the ex-army man. John widened his eyes, then closed them quickly to process this. "And how long exactly have you been alone here? Wait, how did you survive Camn?" Full of questions the little hobbit was.

Sherlock didn't care for this, not now, not here. "Watson, you were just robbed and the only person who would be willing to help you just left. I suggest you pay attention to your own bubbling issues." Oh yeah, being hazed, being wet. "Yes." He said still trying to think clearly. He turned robotically around, exiting without a goodbye.

It were as if a line of people were waiting for John to give them their order, and John wasn't even their waiter, he was the busboy.

Sherlock smiled to himself, looking at the open door, looking at his vacant dorm. This is what he wanted, right? To be alone. Nobody to judge him, nobody to say no to experiments, nobody there to snore at night. Alone is good, alone is safe.

"Alone is what protects me." He whispered, eyes roaming to his cigarrette. They reminded him of Camn now, all kinds of smoke did. All Camn did when he was over was smoke and smoke some more. But Sherlock didn't feel hatred towards them like he did Camn. Because, as before, a cigarrette was universal. You couldn't tie them to just one person.

He put it to his lips, taking a shallow breath.

Okay, maybe you could tie them to just one person.

* * *

**AN: So my best guy friend Gavin wanted his name snuck in and I did it. He really ships Johnlock AND Mystrade, and would love for both to make an entrance. I let him write a good portion of the story today... (All of it except for the foot/tub/blood/bathroom scenes) ... He loves you all, and wishes you well! Loves!**


	4. Brushing it Off

The next morning Sherlock awoke to the sounds of mumbling on the streets and the lights of red and blue coming through his window. "When did I fall asleep?" He asked himself, looking to the alarm clock reading 6:21 on it. Even though sleep is considered transport, doesn't mean your body won't shut down for a quick nap. (Or five hour one at that)

Pins and needles in his foot woke him up better as he stretched out. He forgot what happened last night. Not such a great reminder. But his mind was yet again distracted to the window again. The lights outside were lights from a police car, and inside that were four boys. Behind the tinted glass they sure did look guilty.

"An arrest." He looked closer to the outside, scanning through the large body of students. It took him no time at all to notice John signing papers with a police woman. A light bulb appeared over his head. "An arrest on the boys who hazed Watson, neat." He needed to see this, wanted to, had to. Quickly, he threw pants and a sleeved shirt on, then his shoes- Oh wait. "My damned foot." Another thing he re-remembered. It'd be real painful to walk on his foot now.

But there was fun going on outside! He had to see. He sighs, giving up and pulling his phone out. "If I can't be there, you'll be here." he starts texting.

_You need to come, quick. -SH_

_Who is this? -JW_

_Sherlock Holmes. -SH_

_Who gave you my number? -JW_

_Doesn't matter. It could be dangerous! -SH_

There wasn't a reply, but somehow Sherlock knew better. He leaned back on his bed, smiling to himself with his phone plopped on his chest. John was predictable, well everyone was, but in a much classical way than most. He guesses it was his time in the army, or possibly the reason he was honorably discharged.

He waited, and predicted. Considering the time it would take to ride the elavator, it would be an estimate of five full minutes from being outside to Sherlock's floor. The sun wasn't quite up yet, so the halls would be somewhat empty, unless the students decided to join the ones oogling outside. So, yeah, five minutes, give or take.

_THUMP THUMP THUMP. _"Sherlock, are you alright?!" Sounded a scared John Watson.

Sherlock smiled to himself, watching the door being flung open. "Three." He said under his deepening breath. John twisted his head sideways in question, "...What?!" Now, he was a little angry and confused. Sherlock closed his eyes, not that he needed them to see John's turning face, "Minutes. You ran here, John."

The blonder male shook his shoulders, his eyes catching the exposed feet of Sherlock. He straightened out, "I thought you were getting bloody hurt! Which you are, actually, your foot." He was pointing quite aggressively at it, as if the man didn't know his own foot was wounded. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, "Mmm, Yes. Stepped on glass." Sherlock wasn't trying to hide anything, but why did he feel his stomache drop at the mention of it? Why did his hands twitch into the sheet?

John got closer, "It's infected, and there's clearly still glass need tweezers and alcohol." Sherlock suddenly drew up his feet, he felt watched, and who told John to come and inspect his healt- Oh yeah, he did. "I have tweezers and alcohol." A slight shrug of the shoulders and a good stare. But John stepped forward closer, "Look. I have had one hell of a morning!-" The great Holmes cut him off, sitting up efficiently, his phone dropping to his legs. "I'd say it was a great morning. They caught the robbers, you got some excitment out of it..." His frown turned around, smiling now.

"No. That? Outside? Was a walk in the park compared to earlier. I have no dorm, Sherlock! Stamford got scared when he saw me soaking and beat up, he left at four." Sherlock made a great look of tiredness, he wasn't in the mood for a sob story. "Without him, I can't afford it." He sat on the bed opposite the other.

Sherlock blinked, blandly, "Yes."

John looked up from his palms he was face planting in, "Pardon me?" Sherlock threw his phone to the bedside table and scooted forward. "Yes, John, you can move in with me."

The sound of a car speeding off sounded outside, the boys were being taken to jail. John could breath. "I don't need your sympathy." He tried. "But you need my dorm and money." Sherlock flew back. He was right, John knew it. "I have no need to take advantage of you like that." He was serious, it wasn't apart of his gentlemen ways. Or the ways he was forced to learn with his sister.

"You're not taking advantage of me. You're taking advantage of my overly rich brother, Mycroft." Which Sherlock was equally rich, he just chose to not handle the cha-ching, it wasn't something he cared for much. John's face landed a slight smile, a small perk. "Mycroft Holmes? I never would have connected you two. He is absolutely.." He was going to say stuck up, but chocked on it. Maybe it's only okay for the brother to be opinionized. Sherlock bit and chewed on his lip, "Go ahead, I consider him more of an enemy than sibling."

"Enemy? An enemy?" The blonde questioned, his smile not sure anymore if it should reappear. "Sorry, arch enemy. He's older than me so he must know more about life than I!" He made a 'tssk' sound, "Cheeky bastard."

John definitely smiled again. Hearing one of the most serious and genius people you know say cheeky and bastard in the same sentence automatically brightens your mood. "So, your foot." He pointed at it again. "I'm a doctor..." Sherlock was looking at him keenly "...You need a doctors assisstance. Why don't I clean it up for you?" Then Sherlock grimaced. Because touching. The human contact thing coming again. Having a hand pricking at his feet. His body already protested, but his mind knew he needed him.

"Fine. Just, don't be all touchy." He was already propping his foot to the end of the bed, ready to have the torture over with. The doctor stood, heading his way to the bathroom for supplies when he says and giggles out, "Is somebody ticklish?" And Sherlock's face twists to complete uncertaintly, confusion. "Why would I be ticklish? I was referring to my preferences in personal space." John was now in the bathroom, so he could only visualize Sherlock's face. Then he added, "Obviously." quietly after.

It wasn't hard to find the first aid supplies. The alcohol was under the sink, tweezers in the drawer, right where anybody would keep the usually useless items. "I'll be quick then." John went straight into doctor mode, grabbing a foldable chair by the bedside and staring right where the pale, long, and thin foot was pricked. Which was pretty much the whole bottom of the sole. "Mm." Sherlock's voice rumbled in reply, staring at John by his foot, yet not staring at him at all.

And John couldn't help but wonder to himself how he got the glass so thoroughly splintered in his heel. Sherlock was one of those people who would notice broken glass, and not one of those people who would blindly walk through it barefoot. "Problem?" He heard the rumbling voice chirp. John sat back, setting the tweezers down. He hasn't even touched him yet. "Yes, do you have any tape? It'd be easier to-" The King of cutting in speaks up, "get the glass, of course." He leans slightly to his side and rumaged through a drawer, tape appearing in his hand, "I'm prepared. Here." He tossed the roll.

John catches it, stripping a long piece and tearing it quickly. "This will hurt." He warned. The other nodded, he knew this, but it hurt from the start. It was only pain. For the first time, John laid a finger on his foot and smoothed the tape down with one quick motion. Oh, it did hurt. "Told you." John laughed, gripping the side of the tape and preparing to rip it off in one fluid motion. Sherlock tensed, this was supposed to be quick, why was he taking so long? "This isn't surgery. Just pull i- OUGH!" It was done.

"That worked almost perfectly!" John laughed, dipping a cotton ball with alcohol. Sherlock could feel the tips of John's fingers and the cotton on his foot before it touched him. But unlike his previous thought, the contact wasn't absolutely unsavory. Most of everyone who unintentionally bumps him does it with such ignorance or selfthought that it disgusts him. And the ones who intentionally touch him also have their selfishness beaming above the rest that it's something he doesn't like associating himself with. Human touch.

But John's hand was... A hand. Not a disgusting, vile, unneeded, grotesque hand. It felt like somebody was cleaning his foot. "Wow." Sherlock said aloud, he was really surprised by his bodies reaction, his mind's reaction. John heard him, and he paid a little more attention to keeping a blank face, focused on the work at hand. What was that about, really? Nobody just comments on something like that.

But the work was quickly done. The blood wasn't visible, and the cuts were now clean. "Finished." John leaned back against the chair, shifting uncomfortably. "That was kind." Sherlock told him sheepishly, bringing his foot curled under himself. The doctor smiled, "Most would say a thank you. But I guess you're welcome, I do owe my new dorm buddy."

John isn't sure why, but something drew him to Sherlock. Something that he isn't quite sure of yet. "So you are moving in, then! Great." Sherlock was smiling his cheesey grin again. John stood, following his eyes, "Although I don't have a clue as to why I am here in the first place." He began picking up the small mess.

"Well, I said danger and here you are."

Sherlock and John just looked, no, they stared at one another, just comtemplating laughing or arguing. Nobody has understood the curly, dark headed teen like this before. Both knew this. So, the understanding blonde made a move. "How old are you?" It was a random question, but it made sense to ask here and now. Sherlock may have told him, before, but before Sherlock was just another person. He looks so much younger than everyone here, and not in the 'ten year old' way. John himself is twenty two, just about.

The genius doesn't move, "Sixteen." His mouth and chest are the only things that went into motion. His curled hair just looming over one eye, showing his face. John doesn't see a sixteen year old. He sees a child beyond his years. An old man with a body of a toddler. John sees him. "Right." He blinks away suddenly, looking for the door, then to the clock, and back to Sherlock for a few seconds. "Um, just ice your foot later, and you can text me if you need anything. I'll talk to the head of staff, let him know my old dorm will be vacated." This was his closing statement. He was going to just leave.

Sherlock rolled his foot around, feeling for it. "Hungry? It's nearly lunch and you haven't even eaten dinner last night." He wasn't asking John to the horrible cafe down the rode, but he was asking him for a lunch date. Minus the date, part. John popped back into himself, "Me. Yes. I'm starved, you?"

"I could go for some coffee." The stare turned into a shared smile, they felt like long lost friends torn apart and reunited. It was refreshing. "What are we waiting for, then?" John had a sudden jump in his step.

They made their way to a more secluded cade, a diner. A place where Sherlock could survey everything with a clear head. A place he could revel how he was going to tell John he was right about Camn. The question would come up sooner or later. Later preferred. It's just hard to give up his feelings and spew the torture that was living with Renould. And he could easily blame Camn on his frequent drug use since starting college, but it was a shared fault. Drugs did brings people together, but they also dragged them apart.

Another thing he hoped John wouldn't know about. The drugs.


	5. I'm So Incredibly Sorry

It wasn't like Sherlock was waiting up for John. Because he wasn't, Sherlock never waits on people. But when John Watson didn't come to the new dorm that night and actually sleep in his new bed, Sherlock waited for him. All night.

His phone was perched on his bedside table, shoes ready incase of an emergency on the tabbish rug, and he was picking up and straightening the area. Do not get this confused with cleaning, either, Sherlock also never cleans. He picks up. Only the necessary things, though. Like the few grains of broken glass by the door, old experiments hidden under his bed, newer experiments festering in the fridge, and he finally finished (after nearly half a semester) unloading his books onto a nearby bookshelf. Waiting up for John was an actual progress motivator.

But it didn't stop the dull ache of worry that Watson was in danger. Sherlock took brief glances outside his window where the streetlamp still shone brightly through to indoors(even he forgets curtains), he was checking the streets for him there. Couldn't hurt. Time flew incredibly fast according to the genius however. The second the thud of morning sun streaked the landscape, he showered himself, preparing to speak with this John fellow.

He was just done tying the cords to his robe on when a familiar knocking came from the door. Sherlock hurried to it, happy inside because this person wasn't on some death trip like he secretly expected. He brought himself together in a posh fashion and creaked the door open slowly. And there old Johnny was, healthy as a short little whistle. "Care to move in, yet?" Wow, he didn't mean to sound so parentlike, but damn John scared him.

"Why? Somebody miss me?" John said it so straightfaced, it was a convincing sarcasm. 'Yes' Sherlock thought, "You wish I did," He said, urgently gesturing John to come inside. "I actually came to ask if you'd like to help me move some boxes. If you're free, I mean." Sherlock was free, but he was also curious as to why six in the morning is the best time for such a thing. "Have an early morning, did you?" The only explaination.

John had roaming eyes of his own, looking around the obviously dusted off dorm, "Might I ask the same to you? I was up all night seperating my things from Stamford's trash, getting that out of the way." So they both were up all night. John's tone changed too when he asked, like he was begging for a nap. Sherlock let go of the door he's been holding at. "I'll take care of moving your things, John. In the meantime, how do you feel about eggs benedict?" And, alright, maybe in the mad-pick up Sherlock found eggs still in date. And maybe he made them in expectation of finding Watson once more.

"Breakfast? I'm not protesting." He was hungry.

* * *

**Author's Note: I cannot finish this fic. Last night my friend Gavin was emitted to the ICU and he was my ficbuddy. Things aren't looking that great, I'll admit, but if ANYONE wants to take over or something, that would be fine. I won't say what's wrong with him, but I will say what is written of this chapter is his idea. I love you guys and sorry if I didn't get to the good part, if this was a disappointance, or anything. Apologies.**


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